Son of Night
By
Daniel Stride
I ease open the door.
The doctor awaits. Not in that sense, of course, though his greying beard and wrinkled eyes hint at a swift reunion. His time above ground draws to a close.
“Thanatos?” he asks.
In my work, it costs nothing to be polite, and even my critics acknowledge me as a bringer of peace. I nod, slowly.
He smiles, and scribbles upon a clipboard.
“Good,” he says. “Take a seat.”
I have never endured psychiatry before. From my vague understandings, I expect a couch in black leather, reclining like a serpent beneath the rattle and whirl of a ceiling fan. But the doctor ushers me into a plush armchair instead. I do not complain.
“I do not believe we have met,” he says.
I shrug. “Few meet me twice.”
He chuckles, and mops his bald head with a handkerchief. “Indeed. I must say I was surprised when I saw you had made an appointment.”
”I thought appointments were standard. I always keep mine.”
“So I have heard.” His nods towards his office bookshelf. “I have made a lifelong study of your brother and nephews. Have you read my treatises?”
Ah, my beloved twin brother. The fellow spreads himself around like syphilis at one of Aphrodite's parties. And where dear Hypnos goes, his children march close behind. Morpheus and his merry brood, a troop known to all.
“I can't say I've read your books,” I confess. “Work devours my time.”
“And your work troubles you?”
“Yes. And no.” I wave my arm magisterially. “I mean, it shouldn't. I perform necessary duties. But everyone hates me. And hatred hurts. It is why I have sought your help.”
The doctor scribbles a note. “Interesting. But let us take a step back. Your brother...”
“No-one hates him. Why, they can't get enough of his antics. He devours a third of their lives, and that's just fine. I grant them an eternity of blissful oblivion, yet they shun and curse me. My very existence brings only misery.”
Pangs of bitterness enter my voice. I am a sensitive soul, and when one reads Hesiod's lies after two and a half millennia... the wounds sting. A heart of iron and a spirit of bronze is a weighty burden.
The doctor taps his pen. “A hypothesis,” he says. “Hypnos grants sweet refreshment. You grant only ending.”
My turn to smile. “The two are not at odds, my dear doctor. Life becomes weariness. Life unending becomes torture. No, I have long thought on this. I shall never truly understand the minds of mortals, but I have heard it is fear of the Night. Fear of Nyx.”
A grin flashes across the man's face. His eyes sparkle, long years gone in an instant.
“Of course,” he babbles. “Nyx is the mother! My theory is correct! Psychological distress always comes back to the mother! So...” His voice trembles. “Tell me how you feel about her.”
What to say? Ancient and mighty, my mother terrifies even Zeus himself. She is beyond the gods, never mind men. Primordial creatures of darkness, she and my father Erebus shroud the world in a gloom that hides and obscures, blocking both sight and knowledge.
Nyx is the master of the unknown, except those secrets she doles out piecemeal through her oracles. And therein lies her terror.
I too am an unknown, often called the oldest and greatest fear of mankind. But I only follow from her. She is, after all, my mother.
The doctor listens patiently. When at last I pause, I see him staring into space.
“You give me much to muse on,” he murmurs.
“No doubt. Perhaps I answer my own question too.”
He raises an eyebrow. “How so?”
“My brother and his sons are strange, but not unknown. Men dally with them daily. I am that which men only see once – and never again. They only guess at my nature. So they fear me, and fear becomes hate.”
The doctor wrinkles his forehead. “Your mother is seen every day.”
“She is the army that assaults the walls of Man, a foe to be endured, but never defeated. And in her wake march things that take on a life of their own. A thousand fears of the mind, given breath by her power. Small shadows beneath her single mighty shadow.”
“You do not exist in the mind.”
“No, though many wish I did. Did they not learn from Sisyphus?” I shake my head. “No, no-one learns. To chain me, to lock me away... it is folly. I am unknowable and yet inevitable. And thus the anointed King of Terrors.”
I laugh without joy.
The doctor pulls out his pocket watch, and flicks it open.
“Unfortunately, our time is up. I thank you, Thanatos. It has been a rare privilege.”
A crueller being would have thrown those words back at him, with well-deserved mockery. But I am not cruel, no more than I have a right to be.
The man ushers me over to the door.
“About our next appointment,” he says, suddenly.
I see sweat beading on his forehead. “Yes?”
“It cannot be cancelled. But can you postpone it?”
He does not relish a reunion. I thought as much. But I only pat him on the shoulder.
“We'll see,” I say, as I head off down the stairs.
The best the Great Unknown can offer, I suppose. In my work, it costs nothing to be polite.
Daniel Stride has a lifelong love of literature in general, and speculative fiction in particular. He writes both short stories and poetry; his first novel, Wise Phuul, was published in 2016 by small UK press, Inspired Quill. A sequel, Old Phuul, is due out in the near future. He likes chocolate and cats, and can be found blogging about the works of Tolkien (among other things) at https://phuulishfellow.wordpress.com/. Daniel lives in Dunedin, New Zealand.
By
Daniel Stride
I ease open the door.
The doctor awaits. Not in that sense, of course, though his greying beard and wrinkled eyes hint at a swift reunion. His time above ground draws to a close.
“Thanatos?” he asks.
In my work, it costs nothing to be polite, and even my critics acknowledge me as a bringer of peace. I nod, slowly.
He smiles, and scribbles upon a clipboard.
“Good,” he says. “Take a seat.”
I have never endured psychiatry before. From my vague understandings, I expect a couch in black leather, reclining like a serpent beneath the rattle and whirl of a ceiling fan. But the doctor ushers me into a plush armchair instead. I do not complain.
“I do not believe we have met,” he says.
I shrug. “Few meet me twice.”
He chuckles, and mops his bald head with a handkerchief. “Indeed. I must say I was surprised when I saw you had made an appointment.”
”I thought appointments were standard. I always keep mine.”
“So I have heard.” His nods towards his office bookshelf. “I have made a lifelong study of your brother and nephews. Have you read my treatises?”
Ah, my beloved twin brother. The fellow spreads himself around like syphilis at one of Aphrodite's parties. And where dear Hypnos goes, his children march close behind. Morpheus and his merry brood, a troop known to all.
“I can't say I've read your books,” I confess. “Work devours my time.”
“And your work troubles you?”
“Yes. And no.” I wave my arm magisterially. “I mean, it shouldn't. I perform necessary duties. But everyone hates me. And hatred hurts. It is why I have sought your help.”
The doctor scribbles a note. “Interesting. But let us take a step back. Your brother...”
“No-one hates him. Why, they can't get enough of his antics. He devours a third of their lives, and that's just fine. I grant them an eternity of blissful oblivion, yet they shun and curse me. My very existence brings only misery.”
Pangs of bitterness enter my voice. I am a sensitive soul, and when one reads Hesiod's lies after two and a half millennia... the wounds sting. A heart of iron and a spirit of bronze is a weighty burden.
The doctor taps his pen. “A hypothesis,” he says. “Hypnos grants sweet refreshment. You grant only ending.”
My turn to smile. “The two are not at odds, my dear doctor. Life becomes weariness. Life unending becomes torture. No, I have long thought on this. I shall never truly understand the minds of mortals, but I have heard it is fear of the Night. Fear of Nyx.”
A grin flashes across the man's face. His eyes sparkle, long years gone in an instant.
“Of course,” he babbles. “Nyx is the mother! My theory is correct! Psychological distress always comes back to the mother! So...” His voice trembles. “Tell me how you feel about her.”
What to say? Ancient and mighty, my mother terrifies even Zeus himself. She is beyond the gods, never mind men. Primordial creatures of darkness, she and my father Erebus shroud the world in a gloom that hides and obscures, blocking both sight and knowledge.
Nyx is the master of the unknown, except those secrets she doles out piecemeal through her oracles. And therein lies her terror.
I too am an unknown, often called the oldest and greatest fear of mankind. But I only follow from her. She is, after all, my mother.
The doctor listens patiently. When at last I pause, I see him staring into space.
“You give me much to muse on,” he murmurs.
“No doubt. Perhaps I answer my own question too.”
He raises an eyebrow. “How so?”
“My brother and his sons are strange, but not unknown. Men dally with them daily. I am that which men only see once – and never again. They only guess at my nature. So they fear me, and fear becomes hate.”
The doctor wrinkles his forehead. “Your mother is seen every day.”
“She is the army that assaults the walls of Man, a foe to be endured, but never defeated. And in her wake march things that take on a life of their own. A thousand fears of the mind, given breath by her power. Small shadows beneath her single mighty shadow.”
“You do not exist in the mind.”
“No, though many wish I did. Did they not learn from Sisyphus?” I shake my head. “No, no-one learns. To chain me, to lock me away... it is folly. I am unknowable and yet inevitable. And thus the anointed King of Terrors.”
I laugh without joy.
The doctor pulls out his pocket watch, and flicks it open.
“Unfortunately, our time is up. I thank you, Thanatos. It has been a rare privilege.”
A crueller being would have thrown those words back at him, with well-deserved mockery. But I am not cruel, no more than I have a right to be.
The man ushers me over to the door.
“About our next appointment,” he says, suddenly.
I see sweat beading on his forehead. “Yes?”
“It cannot be cancelled. But can you postpone it?”
He does not relish a reunion. I thought as much. But I only pat him on the shoulder.
“We'll see,” I say, as I head off down the stairs.
The best the Great Unknown can offer, I suppose. In my work, it costs nothing to be polite.
Daniel Stride has a lifelong love of literature in general, and speculative fiction in particular. He writes both short stories and poetry; his first novel, Wise Phuul, was published in 2016 by small UK press, Inspired Quill. A sequel, Old Phuul, is due out in the near future. He likes chocolate and cats, and can be found blogging about the works of Tolkien (among other things) at https://phuulishfellow.wordpress.com/. Daniel lives in Dunedin, New Zealand.
